


How Will I Know Thee

by DreamingPagan



Category: Black Sails
Genre: In Which Thomas Has a Thing About James' Hair, In which Thomas is gone from moment one, In which there is literary nerding, M/M, Reunion Fic, look i'm just not capable of doing one of these where they don't get back together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9708677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: “Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead.” - Lucille Ball





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had horrible writer's block for Chapter 16 of To the Upper Air, so I wrote this to get out of it. Have some fluff!

_"How will I know thee/by the color of my hair/as red as the sun is/in the West setting there." - Syren, How Will I Know Thee_

London, Thomas Hamilton thinks, is a horrible place.

It’s dirty. It’s terribly smelly. It’s incredibly noisy, and absolutely chock full of men (and women, and children) who would like nothing better than to relieve him of his wig and his purse, one of which he would happily do without, granted, but the other is rather more important and he is entirely tired of catching sight of something interesting only to find that his inattention has cost him several pounds sterling. The chief sin of the capital city, however, is that it is dark - so dark, in fact, that he has not noticed until now a fact that is at once both startlingly obvious and breathtaking and arrests him in mid-step, his mouth suddenly opening slightly, breathing stuttering and stopping for a single moment.

His liaison’s hair, he realizes with a sudden jolt of shock, is not brown. It may look so owing to the absolutely criminal lack of anything resembling proper sunlight five days out of every seven in this city, but it is not. It is, instead, a rather breathtaking shade of _red_ and how, _how_ has he failed so utterly to discern the difference before now? How, in his three days of acquaintance with the lieutenant, has he managed to miss something so -

 “My lord?” The man that Thomas has already named James rather than Lieutenant McGraw in the privacy of his own mind turns, and Thomas gathers himself hurriedly.

“Not to worry, lieutenant,” he says, his tongue somehow managing to wrap itself around the words without stumbling, “I was just -” he pauses, looking for the words to describe what he was doing without truly saying anything. Miranda’s always been better at this sort of thing, he thinks, but he’s not exactly without skill in telling the truth indirectly either. “Enjoying the sunlight,” he says finally, and James raises one (red. Red!) eyebrow sardonically. “It’s a beautiful day,” Thomas defends, and James snorts.

“An excellent day for a hanging,” he says, and Thomas gives him a reproving look. He’s a terrible cynic, this relatively young officer, and yet Thomas cannot help but understand the sentiment that goes with the way that James views the world. It’s a sharp counterpoint to Thomas’ own determined optimism, but not one that he feels will be a hinderance to his endeavor - not if Thomas himself has anything to say about it, and he has a great deal to say. He normally does, really, as anyone who knows him can attest. 

“If you’re going to die, it would be better to do it on a day like this, I suppose,” he answers. James gives him an odd look, and he clears his throat. “Sunlight fell upon the wall; the wall received a borrowed splendor. Why set your heart on a piece of earth, O simple one? Seek out the source which shines forever,” he quotes, and James frowns.

“I’ll think you’ll find that sun worship is generally confined to more southern climates, my lord,” he says dryly, and Thomas cannot help the laugh that makes its way out of him. James gives him a half-smile in return, one corner of his mouth lifting upward, and Thomas feels his heart do a flip within him. Oh yes - this is going to be trouble, he recognizes distantly, and cannot quite bring himself to care. He grins.

“Pity,” he says, “It seems altogether more sensible to believe in something so tangible. Still - it’s not too late to bring the practice further North. Shall we go and attempt to start a new fashion?”

James quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I believe we have a schedule to keep, my lord,” he answers, and Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Yes - I suppose you have a point. Well, come along then - we’ll retire to my garden, at least, instead of confining ourselves to the house on a beautiful day. Does that sound agreeable?”

James’ mouth quirks upward again, and Thomas increases his tally of small victories thus far by one.

“Perfectly, my lord,” James answers, and Thomas mentally deducts half the tally mark.

“Thomas, Lieutenant. If we are to begin this endeavor, then it should be as equals.”

James starts.

“My lord?” he asks, and Thomas shakes his head.

“ _Thomas_ ,” he corrects again, gently. “Please. We are going to be working closely together as allies in a common cause. It cannot hurt if we are also friends. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I - would, my - Thomas,” James manages, and this time the smile that crosses his face is hesitant, slightly concerned still, but wider, touching both sides of his mouth this time, and Thomas feels his heart skip a beat. It’s a stumble, an attempt to correct himself, nothing more, and yet -

This, he realizes suddenly was a mistake. He is informed by the sudden dryness of his mouth and the jolt that travels through him, settling somewhere around the base of his spine even as his breathing hitches just for an instant. This was a mistake, and oh, _damn it all_ -

James is looking at him, and he makes an effort to pull himself together. He will not think about his name in James’ mouth, or the _my_ that preceded it, or about what he might do to hear that again. He flashes James a smile, pushing aside the flight of fancy, tells his body in no uncertain terms to behave itself, and gestures toward the carriage.

“Well then, Lieutenant,” he says, “let us begin.”

James nods, still smiling, and Thomas watches as he climbs in, catching one last glimpse of that red, red hair in the sunlight. He can live, he thinks, without hearing those words in conjunction again from his new liaison. He can, and he will - he has to, and he mentally resolves to ensure that they only venture from the house together on rainy days from now on.

He can do this. He must, shining red hair and voice that feels like he’s known it forever or not. He tells himself so over and over until the night that James stands at his table, the buttons on his uniform gleaming in the candlelight, eyes locked on Thomas’ father and filled with fury on Thomas’ behalf, and gives Alfred the full measure of his scorn, and Thomas can stand it no longer. He stands, and kisses him, hands finally, finally buried in that glorious auburn mane as they make their way clumsily, laughing and kissing, up the stairs to his bedroom.

***************************************

He does not get to enjoy the beard properly.

James comes home from Nassau looking weary and relieved and apprehensive all at the same time, and sporting a new addition to his face that takes Thomas’ breath away upon first sight. His lover, he discovers upon turning toward the door, has grown a beard - a neatly-trimmed, absolutely perfect beard to go with the burnished copper of his hair, made all the more so by the West Indies sun, and it is all Thomas can do not to cross the room to him and crowd him against the wall, kiss him and in so doing discover the feel of it against his skin - to express in full just how much it means to Thomas that James has followed through on his joking suggestion of a few months before. Thomas had wondered, at the time, what it might look like and now here is his answer, in front of him, and dear God, is Peter still here? _Why_ is he still here, and is there any possibility that he will recall in the next ten minutes that he has forgotten to do something urgent and leave? He looks to Miranda, who shakes her head minutely. There will be no help coming from that corner, and he attempts to quell the impatience that wells up within him. He wants to go to James right now - wants to taste him again, wants to feel the scratch of the beard and the faint tickle of the mustache that goes with it, He wants to take hold of James’ uniform coat and strip it off of him then and there and then begin on the ridiculously overbuttoned affair that is his waistcoat to get at the broad chest beneath, but there is work to be done, and he reluctantly turns his attention to it, vowing that later he will do all of the deliciously sinful things he wants to do right here, right now. There will be time.

He laughs bitterly. Time! He had thought they had so much, and now -

The sound echoes off the cell walls, and he shrinks, trying to block the sound with his hands. It is deafening in here - maddening in and of itself, and he feels a sob well up within him at the thought. He is cold, and tired, and hurting, and he somehow doubts that he will ever, ever again know what it is to feel a friendly touch, let alone one of the sort that James used to bestow so lovingly upon him. He will never bury his face in his lover’s hair again - never run his fingers along Miranda’s silken skin, never -

Never, ever, and the thought is unbearable. He sobs, and the walls echo the sound of his pain back at him until there is nothing but the crying and the cold and the endless, horrifying stretch of Time in front of him, ticking along mercilessly, more seconds than there are freckles on James’ skin, more minutes than there are hairs of the beard he never even got to touch.

He weeps, and the world weeps with him, clouds covering the sky as the rain starts to fall again.

******************************

July, 1708:

His own father does not recognize him.

It should not surprise him, really. The man has never been in the habit of truly looking at his children, and especially not at his eldest son since he was committed to the asylum. Then too, Thomas has lost considerable weight since his imprisonment, and has not regained much of it, bereft as he is of funds since his escape from hell. Still, it rankles that Alfred has not noticed him - has not so much as looked his way, for all that it suits Thomas’ purposes perfectly.  He intends to take ship for the West Indies, but finds that the _Maria Aleyne_ is the only ship in the harbor that is going anywhere near the area for the next month, and he is hardly in any position to stay in London with no prospects and indeed, no history as such since he is, as of his impromptu release from Bethlem, dead as far as the British government is concerned. It seems the logical step to sign on board a ship bound for the Carolina colony, instead, and work his way over the Atlantic, thus arriving with some money in his pocket and means of making his own way in the world. It is not the worst notion he has ever taken, but his hands and back are currently reminding him that he has never been a laborer of any sort. Still - the work is satisfying, he is fed well and regularly (or at least he is by his own newly lowered standards. Anything is better than Bethlem), and the bright sunlight and fresh air are a welcome change from the enclosed world he has just escaped. All in all, he is beginning to feel human again - less a ghostly approximation of the man he was, and the feeling holds until the day the pirates attack the ship.

He is on deck when it happens. Sails are sighted, and then a shiver goes through the crew - a whisper, really, and Thomas hears a name murmured.

“Flint,” one of the men near him says in a shaking voice. “Christ save us - it’s Captain Flint!” and Thomas understands, and almost laughs at the irony that is his life.

“Who?” Alfred barks, and Thomas turns away, hiding his face, restraining the curling of his fists and the shudder that runs through him at his father’s voice. Christ, maybe the pirates will kill Alfred too, and should he be happy or horrified at that or both?

“Captain Flint, my lord,” the captain answers. “We had best surrender. He’s well known for -”

Thomas does not see his father go pale, but he can hear it in Alfred’s voice when he speaks.

“Flint?” There is a curious tremulousness there, one that Thomas has not heard before, and it almost makes him turn, just to see the unfamiliar expression on his father’s face - to see the fear and know that Alfred is, in fact, human, is in fact vulnerable and not some unkillable Goliath immune even to the casting of a stone at his impenetrable facade. He does not turn - he cannot, for he can see the other vessel now, bearing down on them - can see the straining of the sheets and the flutter of a black flag at her stern.

“There will be no surrender,” Alfred orders. “No surrender, and no quarter given. Do you understand me, Captain?”

“Sir -”

“That’s an order!” Alfred snarls, and then he is moving, taking his bulk toward the hatch, and Thomas turns in time to see his father moving quickly for the first time in living memory, his wig almost threatening to come off of his balding head with the speed of his departure. Thomas watches him go, and then turns back to look at the pirate ship.

“Mr. Barlow - about your duties!” The bosun’s words cut across his furious, racing thoughts. “Up into the rigging with you. We run for the coast, as fast as we can, before she can cut our wind. Go!”

Thomas nods.

“Aye, sir,” he answers, and his head screams warning while his heart murmurs about red hair and a story that James told him, what seems so long ago now.

*************************

“Thomas?” James murmurs hours later, and Thomas nods, his face still covered in blood and dirt, his hands shaking, his father’s mistress still crying hysterically while Alfred himself lies, barely alive, his eyes fixed on Thomas - on the son who has just saved his wretched, miserable life for no better reason than because James does not deserve to have this on his conscience.  Thomas nods, and suddenly all is right with the world as James launches himself forward, catching him in an embrace that feels like it might just succeed in breaking him where Bedlam didn’t, his hair falling into his face, the fight going out of him and leaving behind a sobbing, overwhelmed, overjoyed ginger mess that Thomas could not be happier to see if he tried.

“Come. Let’s get out of here,” he says, and James nods, still shaking a little as he pulls himself together, running a hand through his hair. The other still clings to Thomas, and he turns toward Alfred and Lady Cramond.

“What about -?” he motions to them, and Thomas feels something cold wash over him. They have seen James. They know who Captain Flint is - and yet - He takes a step into the room, and grasps hold of Lady Cramond’s arm, pulling her to her feet gently but firmly.

“You understand?” he asks. “You know what has happened here today?” She nods, frightened, and Thomas closes his eyes.

“You will tell my father,” he says in a soft tone, “that I mean him no harm. You will also tell him that if he comes near James or Miranda or myself again that I will finish what James started. Will you do that?”

She nods, and he thinks he sees something in her eyes that might be fear and it burns but he cannot care about that now - cannot contemplate it when it is necessary to keep Alfred as far away from his lover as possible, the way he should have years ago. If this is what it takes, then Thomas will live with that, now and for the rest of his days.

“Thank you,” he says, and then turns back to James.

“Let's go,” he repeats, and James nods, and leads him out of the cabin, out into the brilliant Caribbean day.

********************************

His first night back in James’ arms is beyond words.

They don’t make love on the ship. James’ captaincy is too tenuous a thing, he says, for anyone to get the idea that he attacked a ship and took them all on a wild goose chase for no better reason than to have revenge or to find his lover, and so for a week and a half they settle for stolen kisses in the hold and tears of joy where no one can see them. When they return to Nassau, though, and find Miranda waiting - after she’s kissed him soundly and clung to him and wept and then kissed James in apology and thanks and sworn that she doesn’t care what’s happened to Alfred when she’s just been given her heart’s desire, worn clothing, exhaustion and all - when they finally get to the home that she and James have managed to somehow carve out in the interior -

It has been an age, or what feels like one, since he last did this. It has been three years too long since he was last enveloped in the embrace of his wife and the man who is functionally their husband - three years gone since he has felt touch that is so utterly, unreservedly loving, and he cries with it, tears welling in his eyes even as James kisses him as if he had been drowning until that exact moment. Miranda comes to kiss them away, her lips caressing every inch of his face, and he closes his eyes, lost to the sensation even as James begins to strip the shirt from him, as Miranda’s clever fingers work his trousers open and off of him, and then one of them is kissing him, and he can tell which one because James’ mustache, he discovers, tickles against the sensitive skin of his collarbones and his beard scrapes against Thomas in all the right places, and oh dear God, the sheer overwhelming relief of it is enough to have him weeping again. He opens his eyes again to find that James is looking at him, a look in his green eyes that Thomas can only call wonder and just a little apprehension.

“I was never able to ask,” he says, a half-smile at the edges of his mouth, his mind, as usual, attuned to Thomas’s with frightening accuracy. “What do you think?”

For answer, Thomas surges forward, catching James’ lips with his own.

“I think,” he says, “that Rumi had clearly never been in love with a redhead.” James laughs even as he kisses him again. They laugh together long into the night.

London, Thomas thinks, might be terrible, but Nassau -

Nassau has the people he loves best in the world and all the sunlight they could ever want.


End file.
